


Lost to the world

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: The Little Drummer Girl (Miniseries)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 07:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: Shimon has doubts about what they're doing as much as Gadi does, but Marty seems to trust Gadi's doubt more. He realises he'll never be what Gadi is to Marty, a frustration that's keeping him awake.(Takes place between episode 4 and 5)





	Lost to the world

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for the ~loyal lieutenant~ type being in love with the boss trope so here we are. also my thirst for gay michael shannon is unparalleled, so there's that too. this is just a quick lil angst/fluff thing that i hope people enjoy ^_^

Shimon’s fingers hover over the upright piano’s ivory keys, Bach carrying away from his fingertips and up into the knots around his shoulder blades. 

“What is it, Shimon?” Marty asks from the sofa, lowering his cup of tea to the coffee table. “You’re quiet.” 

He forces the arrangement out of his shoulders, into his mind, an explosive precision in his fingers as he deploys the first english suite over the cold keys.

He had always known Marty to be good at his job. The best spy, the best codebreaker, the best interrogator. He didn’t think Marty could get any more confident until Gadi came back into the fold. It was obvious to everyone how Gadi’s presence alone changed Marty. What Gadi could bring to the table, what he missed doing, showed them all that their mission will succeed. And Marty trusted in Gadi that his vision will reach its fullest potential, that they could take down the entire family and assets. 

“It’s an honour,” Shimon had said when he approached Gadi for the first time in that great white house in Athens. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“No,” Gadi had replied, “You haven’t.”

Marty never talked about Gadi before that evening. As the sun was setting, they were on the yellow leather couch. The pure white walls expanding around them, eclipsing the white of the sun and the moon. Shimon was in blue, Marty in brown. They complemented each other. And between them, a red was spilling out, spreading over their skin, flushing them pink. But Marty couldn’t focus. He was restless. Excited. Gadi was due to arrive in the middle of the night.

Shimon still wonders why Marty never mentioned Gadi before. Was he worried that if he spoke of him, an apparition of Gadi would appear like a falsity that would deter the soul’s true arrival. He arrived, fully formed. And the following bright, sunny morning, Marty’s fingers rapped over Shimon’s naked body as he told him small things about Gadi, distractedly so, more by the memories than the present. A confidence growing in him that Shimon perceived as dangerous. He could never estimate Marty to make rash decisions. By design, he could not. But since the retired spy’s return, Marty has been influenced by Gadi, who is, in turn, influenced by his love for Charlie. 

It would be unfair for Shimon to shun Gadi for his decisions. A yellow and blue bracelet, or a white and black, doubt that Gadi holds, and doubt that Shimon holds, he must find reason in Marty’s reverence for Gadi, because he himself loves Marty. But Marty trusts Gadi’s doubt more. 

Shimon abruptly stops playing the piano and withdraws his hands to his lap. The unfinished piece plays through his head, a soft melody to undercut the mixed feelings he has towards Gadi that pour into him like wet cement. 

“You always play Bach when you’re frustrated. Come here,” Marty beckons him, a hand raised toward him, fingers clapping the swell in his palm. 

Shimon stands up obediently, but hangs his head, eyes trained on the patterns in the carpet as he walks around the coffee table and stops in front of Marty’s long legs. 

“Shimon,” Marty says softly in his husky voice. He claps his palm on his thigh, his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. 

Shimon’s chin is an inch away from his chest before he plants one foot on the seat of the sofa beside Marty and climbs into Marty’s lap. Marty hooks his arms around Shimon’s legs, holds him close, and Shimon nestles his face into Marty’s neck, the stiff collar of Marty’s shirt on his lips. 

“What is troubling you, my dear?” 

He can feel Marty’s voice in his whole body, feels the roughness of it emanate into his own throat. Shimon turns his face into Marty’s shoulder, embarrassed of the truth that will so easily spill out of him. He feels Marty’s comforting hand spread over his back, thumb pressing where Bach’s knots embedded under his shoulder blades, and he presses a closed mouth sigh of relief at the ease of the tension. 

Marty chuckles, a low, tickle of a thing that makes Shimon’s hand squeeze around Marty’s shoulder. He turns his cheek to Marty’s body, his forehead pressed close to Marty’s neck and he confesses, “I’ll never be what Gadi is to you.”

Marty repeats the chuckle but his touch is firm, his hold close and secure in stark comparison to his words. “Of course you will not.” 

Shimon sits back, hands clinging to Marty’s shoulders at arms length as if he were an apparition. A falsity who would say such horrible things. 

“You cannot,” Marty says, a gentle crease in his eyebrows. “Or I would not be able to love you as I do.”

Marty pulls Shimon back to him, kisses him. Shimon feels the heat of a thick moustache on his lips, Marty’s tongue sweet from the sugary tea he likes to drink. When they break, Marty’s thumb caresses Shimon’s cheek. He holds his gaze, love oozing from him. They will sleep well tonight. 

“Shimon,” Marty says, low and sure. “I cannot love you the way you think I love Gadi. The fear of losing you to the world would be too much for me.”


End file.
